Well butter my backside and call me a biscuit! If there's one thing that can get an old ranch hand's dander up quicker than a blow-out during brandin' season, it's the subject of modern pickup trucks.
Now don't go thinkin' I'm some kinda technological Luddite who can't appreciate progress.
Heck, I've embraced plenty of new-fangled contraptions over the years that made life easier out here on the range. That balin' machine sure beats swingin' a pitchfork all day, I'll tell you what.
But by crikey, these truck manufacturers have plain lost their ever-lovin' minds with the prices and plastic-y build of today's haulers.
Why, I paid less for the house I raised my four ornery sons in than the sticker on some of these new "luxury" models! Nickel-plated belt buckles on a pair of Wrangler's, I reckon.
Course, I'm just an old-fashioned cowboy who prefers my trucks bred for honest work, not puttin' on airs, with leather seats you're scared to spill a dip cup in.
Give me a simple, no-frills hauler with a sturdy frame that I can fling a naily fence post into the bed without sheddin' more tears than I do at a sad country song on the radio.
These new rigs are like blinkin' runway models - shiny and sleek until you look too close and realize there's more plastic on 'em than the toy section of Wally World.
Why, I've seen truck beds that couldn't hold a bale of hay without the fancy molded liner crackin' like a tumbleweed rollin' through a bonfire!
Now I know what you're thinkin' - "But Rod, what about that there Cybertruck Elon Musk's peddlin'?"
Well let me tell you, I've been runnin' that metal exoskeleton through the mind's windmill, and I reckon it just might be the truck for a no-nonsense ranch wrangler.
Stainless steel unibody? Oh, you bet your buttons I can appreciate a truck that can take a blow from a big ol’ sledge.
And who else but a cowboy could look at that outrageous design with its origami angles and say "You know, I reckon that crazy critter just might work!"
But mark my words, the second one of them city slickers spots me ramblin' into town haulin' hay bales in the back of some Blade Runner-lookin' contraption, well... I can already hear the jokes a-flyin' about my wits havin' wandered off with the Pony Express!
Maybe if I opt for the classic pickup bed configuration instead of that futuristic sloop they call the "vault," I could sneak under the big-hat radar.
So gimme a truck with a few well-earned dents in her steel, a manual transmission I can feel in my bones, and rubber floor mats I don't mind muddin' up after a long day's ride.
'Cause a real workin' truck should be like an old saddle - comfy as can be and built to take whatever sorry abuse you can dish out!
These fancy finfolk with their pretty truck sculptures can keep 'em. I'll hold out for the day when Detroit rediscovers common sense, and a sense of purpose.
Until then, I'll be moseyin' down the road in my trusty old beater, windows rolled down and Merle singin' about hIs horse with no name on the radio. Now that's real truck life!
Author’s note – er, ah, I mean a note from a columnist suffering from acute writer’s block and dishing the job off to an AI program – I didn’t write this. Someone or something else did. Selah.
Rod Miller can be reached at: rodsmillerwyo@yahoo.com
